Bruised
by Crinklybrownleaves
Summary: Set during 4.1, this is a scene we were never going to see in the show! I'm sorry there's not much plot. There was more, but it all leaked out as I was writing it.


**Set during 4.1, but let's just say this is a scene we didn't see. It's M, so if you don't like that sort of thing, please don't read it!**

Jean tapped on the door and eased it open with her foot. A lamp cast a gentle glow out into the hallway. He must still be awake.

Lucien sat on the stool in front of the dressing table, staring into the mirror with glazed eyes. He did not seem to have noticed her.

She drew her chin in, awkward standing in his bedroom in her dressing gown, but she rapidly took in the scene.

The room was very masculine; she was inclined to see his father in the old-fashioned furniture, but there was Lucien's scent in the air too. Soap and wool, and - today - the sweat that fear caused.

He was still dressed, too calm and too quiet, his hands locked tight on his knees.

"I've brought you some Bex," she said, shocked by how loud her voice sounded. "You said your chest hurt, at dinner." There was a hint of a question in her words. It was almost the only thing he had said at dinner, and she could feel him retreating back into his dark world.

Lucien sighed, but turned his eyes towards her in the mirror. "Thank you, Jean." He did not sound grateful.

She held out the two tablets, cupped in her hand, and offered him the glass of water that she held in the other.

He sighed again, impatience spilling over. He just wanted to be left alone, turning over Matthew's accident and his own narrow escape in his mind. But his fingers grazed hers, and he took the painkillers obediently, and swallowed them with two rapid mouthfuls of water. Jean watched his throat contract, and her tongue darted over her lips as his Adam's apple bobbed and settled.

"Do you have any bruises?" she asked.

He was tempted to shake his head, send her away even, but after what had happened in Adelaide he could not do that.

"I don't know," he murmured. Jean brushed her hand over his waistcoat, giving him the briefest of glances, and then swiftly undid it, followed by his shirt buttons and cuffs.

Her hands were shaking, as she eased off his outer layers and pressed her palms for the first time to his solid shoulders and arms. Her stomach clenched at the thought that she had nearly lost him, and she began to be angry - at him, at herself, at Clive Hildebrand, at God.

Lucien watched her, bemused, as she undressed him, as if he scarcely understood what she was doing.

She started to speak again, breaking the heavy silence. Her voice seemed distant to him, then booming unnaturally, as if he had a fever.

".. should have had more sense…dangerous enough without a killer on the loose…" He looked wanly at her, and only then seemed to notice she had stripped him to his singlet and trousers.

Jean fussed and tutted over the state of his waistcoat. The thin fabric of the back panel was scuffed and shredded in parts, well beyond repair. Maybe she could sew in a new back, but it was really a job for a tailor. Her breath caught when she saw blood, dark and dried, on the white shirt.

"You're bleeding," she said, almost as an accusation, her frown making him smile for the first time.

"Not any more," he replied, and crossed his arms ready to remove his vest. He winced as his ribs protested at the stretch, and then grumbled as the cotton stuck to the wounds on his back. Jean took the vest from him, dropping it onto the dressing table, and bent to study his chest, grimacing. She could feel his breath hot in her hair but tried to keep her mind on the task at hand. She moved round to inspect his back and hissed at what she saw. Old scars overlaid with fresh blood and grazes.

"Those need cleaning," she said firmly.

She was gone for several minutes, during which Lucien tried to think about nothing at all. Whenever he closed his eyes he could feel himself back under that car, the chassis of the Vanguard pressing down on him, squeezing the life from him, enclosing him in the smallest of spaces with no escape, back in that prison - and the breathlessness he felt was both fear and pain.

Yet under the other car, with his head touching Jean's, and her teasing voice right against his ear, he had forgotten to be afraid. She had steadied him, and then she had saved him.

When she returned with a bowl of water, and the bottle of antiseptic tucked under her arm, he breathed more easily, smiling at her slightly in the dressing table mirror. He listened to her familiar soothing grumbles behind him, as she dabbed at his grazes as though they personally offended her.

The sharp sting of the antiseptic was a comfort; he could still feel something. He had cheated death again. Her contact started to warm him a little.

He reached for her hand, awkwardly catching her fingertips and knocking the cotton wool from her hand.

"Thank you," he said. "If you hadn't…"

She nodded, eyes sliding away from his reflection, not wanting him to say it.

"Just be glad I know how to jack up a car," she replied, attempting to laugh off the thought, but her eyes and the wobble in her voice gave her away.

The air in the room shifted and a draught made the net curtain skitter at the window.

He kissed the back of her hand, delicately, deliberately, tasting dish soap, and antiseptic, and her skin. He turned her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist, feeling her pulse quicken under his lips, and that pleased him far too much.

But as he turned round on the stool, hoping to run his lips further up the soft, pale skin on the underside of her arm, Jean stepped back, retrieving her hand.

"Let me see those bruises properly," she said briskly, and she crouched in front of him to look more closely.

Her fingers traced the darkening marks across his chest, gently catching the blond hairs in the centre. His skin was softer than she had imagined. Jean chewed her bottom lip gently, her cheeks pink, then glanced up to see him watching her, apparently amused. She frowned, and went to move away.

"Don't," he said softly. He leaned in and kissed her cheek, and when she hesitated he pulled her closer, until she stood between his legs.

He rather liked this view: in the foreground he had a lover's view of her breasts, loose and warm in her night clothes, and then her parted lips and light blue eyes beyond.

"Come here," he murmured, pulling her down onto his thigh. It was only natural for her arms to wrap themselves around his shoulders, and for his hands to balance her, splayed across her hip.

Jean began to kiss his cheek, so soft and salty against her lips, and then the harshness of his beard in contrast. His skin smelled warm, both comforting and disturbing.

"When I saw Clive Hildebrand…" She kissed the curve of his ear, "I thought I was too late, until I heard you shouting my name." Her grip on his shoulder tightened.

"Jean…" His voice cracked. "only you could…" He paused to catch her lips in a kiss. "Only you…" She was his life.

He seemed to have forgotten everything but her name.

"Jean," he groaned, and his hands wandered up her side, loosening her dressing gown and slipping his fingers inside, skimming the side of her breast through her pyjamas, and then palming it, fixing the sensation of the soft curve in his mind, testing its weight.

She did not push his hand away, so he tugged at the waist of her pyjama top, pulling it up and slipping his hand under the hem, reaching for her skin. He kissed her gently, on the mouth and then on her neck, her collar bone, anywhere he could reach, before returning to her mouth.

Jean shuffled up his leg and broke the kiss. With her fingertip, she stroked his lower lip, parting his lips a little. Her next kiss was deeper, with her tongue slipping in to touch his teeth, encouraging him into her mouth too. The delicious ache in her belly grew stronger.

"I thought you were…" she groaned in his ear, thoughts spiralling away, as he kissed and nipped at her neck, and his fingers traced swirls on her stomach.

"I did too," he replied. He had managed to undo most of the buttons on her pyjama top and was now working his lips over the tender skin between her breasts. "I need you, Jean."

She flashed a smile; he had always needed her for something. For advice, for running his home, for keeping him facing the right way. Now she could feel his latest need urgent against her leg and see it in his eyes. Her slow blink was almost imperceptible, but his answering grin lit up the dim room.

He peeled away her robe and pyjama top, letting them slide to the floor, and watched her breasts flow as she shook the clothes loose. Her skin glowed moon-pale in the half light. Lucien stroked one soft nipple with his thumb and suckled gently, even reverently, on the other, smiling against her skin as he felt them harden under his touch, and as he heard a smothered moan vibrate in her chest.

"So lovely," he breathed against her breast.

Jean closed her eyes, trying to control her reaction and failing. She gripped the muscles of his shoulders, squeezing as the tension rose. She pressed closer to him where his beard brushed against her bare skin.

As Lucien slid his hand into her pyjama trousers, trailing heat across her belly, cupping her, and delving gently into her folds, she knew she did not ever want him to stop. She could hear herself making a strange sound in the back of her throat, but how could she be doing that when she could hardly breathe?

She fumbled with his belt and zipper blindly, until Lucien picked her up with both hands under her bottom and carried her the few feet to his bed. They both landed awkwardly, she elbowing his painful ribs, he fighting to slide her trousers down over her bottom, both trying to pull back the covers, awkward laughter and mumbled apologies covering the strangeness of it all.

He stripped off his remaining clothes quickly, and weighed down the bed as he moved across to her, but then held her, just stroking her bare back, smoothing away the chill, his nose in her scented hair. She might have expected urgency after all the frustration and missed opportunities, but there was no haste, no roughness at all. He had come to worship, not to possess.

She had imagined, during those nights when she lay in bed thinking about what this would be like, that he would lie over her, warm and heavy, dominating, his body shutting out the rest of the world, protecting her from her fears. And that he would push into her hard and quickly, all eagerness and strength.

But this was Lucien, and as so often, he surprised her. He drew her into his lap, astride him, and pulled her tight against his chest, his erection trapped between them, hot against her belly. Jean wrapped her legs and arms around him, and lightly kissed his cheeks, his forehead, then his lips, deep and slow. She groaned into his mouth as she ground against him, wanting more, wanting everything.

And this was so unexpected to him. Whenever Lucien had let himself think about having Jean for the first time, he had imagined she might be shy, wanting to cover herself up in darkness or blankets, that she might need encouraging, or her confidence bolstering. But this was his Jean, rolling her hips against him in the lamplight, and perhaps her boldness and enthusiasm should not have been so surprising.

He was good at this. Jean acknowledged this to herself as his hand snaked between their bodies, exploring and stroking. Learning what she needed satisfied him. While he circled with his thumb he slipped his long fingers into her warmth, and heard her quiet sigh of pleasure. Her fingers twisted in his hair as she hung her arms around his neck.

A key clicked quietly in the front door lock. They froze, eyes wide open and senses heightened, as they waited for the door to shut again.

"Mattie," Jean mouthed, touching her finger to his lips to remind him to be quiet, but she fought the urge to giggle.

As Mattie's footsteps faded up the stairs, he shifted, trailing his slick fingers up her side, lifting Jean onto her knees. She dipped down to kiss his mouth, her breasts sweeping languidly across his front. As she kissed his lips and cheeks, delicately then deeply, her nipples grazed over the soreness on his chest: an exquisite pain.

His length twitched against her belly and her stomach swooped with momentary fear, before curiosity got the better of her. A quick glance, a feather-light touch, a half-concealed smile.

"Well?" he asked, with a touch of smugness that made her grin despite herself.

He got no answer except a roll of her eyes, and an attempt to shimmy against him, seeking out delicious friction, and ratcheting the tension up a notch.

He would have to move. Holding off any longer was unthinkable.

He lifted her lightly and Jean eased him in, just a little, just as much as she could deal with right then. She knew she had gasped a breath in, but how to breathe out?

Shakily, she exhaled and let him in. And with that out-breath came vulnerability; he was really here inside her, filling her, under her heart, throwing open windows into long-neglected parts of her memory.

Before she could start to move against him, he rolled them right over, still deep inside her, and she hitched her knees higher, finding a better angle and pulling him closer.

Lucien moved slowly, eking out each thrust, measuring his strength by counted heartbeats. With one hand he laced his fingers through hers, holding on, keeping steady, while he nipped and kissed at the dip above her collar bone.

"I don't know…how," she pleaded with him.

"Don't try. I'll…"

As he felt her rise up, arching against him, and her head fell back, he grazed her throat with his teeth. This momentary pain shattered her brittle control, breaking her vision into sparkling shards of light. A warm flood of joy flowed over her, and as she came up again for breath, calling his name, Lucien muffled his cries against her shoulder and tumbled against her, finding oblivion at last.

She patted his shoulder slowly, prosaically, as if this were their hundredth time, and he obliged by moving off her a little, his heart still racing as the waves receded.

Jean pulled her arm from under him and they shifted together, lazy and replete, finding a new way to fit. Muscular arms drew her in close, while she shuffled to avoid the wet patch under her hip. She tried not to dwell on the possibilities of that.

Mattie's footsteps overhead, on the way to the bathroom, were a more immediate concern.

"Do you think she heard?" she whispered.

"She'll know soon enough anyway," he murmured, "and she'll be happy for us." His eyes were closed now.

Jean pushed another uncomfortable thought away; plenty of other people might be less than happy.

She pressed her nose closer to his neck. "I need you too." A trace of a smile crossed his face.


End file.
